Monday, August 31, 2009

More Fercocktin Roosters - Can You Believe it?

I began

one is
the most
I own.

it back
to me
from Italy
a story
why friends
give them
to friends.

There was this family (The Hatfields) in the republic of Florenzia who had a lot of money and land but they treated their PEASANTS nice, which is to say they didn't beat them too often.
Another family (The McCoys) wanted to take over the Hatfield family, and sneaked into their castle in the darkest hour but their chickens raised hell and woke them up so they were able to kill the Rotten Diabolical McCoys, so the Don made chicken pitchers...Oh, so it's a CHICKEN! Well it looked like a Rooster to me!

It is the
rooster who
makes all
the noise.

It is
the goods.

More Bounty



Friday, August 28, 2009

Pink Butt

Thank you Bev! Now pop on over to see all the pinkness

This is Pegi’s Butt.

Pegi is my youngest sister. As a mater of fact she is only two weeks older than my daughter.

This phenomenon is a little family tradition that I broke by not doing my part by having a baby when my granddaughter was born.

As If.

You see, I have an aunt who is a year younger than I am. We went to college together. Her being my aunt became so tedious to explain that we finally just told everyone we were cousins.

Pegi and Martie went to grade school together after my father died and they moved out to California.

All of this business, plus the fact that my brother married our step-sister, (When Mom remarried later), caused me to win the
“Weirdest Family Award,” in the teacher’s lounge, year after year.

(Until I taught with a gal whose brother was a convicted serial killer. That bumped me right out of my coveted position.)

Pegi, being the youngest kid in the family should have been spoiled rotten, but there was that damn Martie to compete with. Once at age two, as Mom held her granddaughter, Martie, in her lap, Pegi announced in a sweet little voice,

“I sink I’m gonna bomit.”

Martie lived to get her sweet, timid aunt in trouble.
Once (when they were three) Mom and I over heard this conversation;
Martie: “Come on, Pegi, Lets go play wif
the toothpaste!”
Pegi: “Okay.”
(Thirty seconds later)
Martie: “Gram! Pegi’s in the tooth paste!”

My favorite story about the owner of this butt is about her favorite doll. It was a Pussycat Doll, and I now notice they are valuable collector dolls.

Our middle sister had a date with a guy she really liked. He came in and sat down on the sofa. He inadvertently sat upon the doll. She ran in and squealed, “You’re sitting on my Pussy!”
I don’t think there ever was a second date with that poor guy.


This cloisonne guy came home in my suitcase from China.
He kept saying, "Pick ME! Pick ME!!"
So I picked him.

The pewter measuring spoons were a gift from my grandchildren.
How did they know!

The other little hangie roosters are usually found on my rear view mirror.

The rooster pictures are hanging in my kitchen.

All of these roosters are important because I was born in the year of the rooster.
I have been known to crow.

The last rooster, seen here with two of his wives, tries to awaken me at a decent hour.

He fails.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Good Use of Something Won

As I promised...
And as I always keep my promises...
Here is what I made using the lacy collar that I won in Lynn's (Her Creative Spirit) giveaway.
I must have a thing about bottles lately as this is the third one I have done this summer.

Perhaps I'm expecting a genie or something to pop out.

This collar was only a small portion of the goodies she sent to me!
Thanks again, Girl!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The Bounty

My favorite pear.

There are more where these came from.

All this and more awaited our return from Mexico.

I suppose I'll be making some freezer tomato sauce later today.

I have never canned anything.

I'm pretty sure I'd kill everyone off if I did.

Aren't I making up for lost time with all this blogging!

Why Does She Look Like That? Oh. I See.

We did quite a bit of this during the past two weeks.

US Customs

I had done the United States customs- immigration thing in San Francisco, New York, LA, and San Diego. Cake.

This picture is the mess in Cancun. It took an hour and a half.
By far the worst customs experience ever.
Worse than China.
Worse than the Dominican Republic.

But then we got to Houston.
What are those 'tards doing?
Embarrassing the United States?!

Monday, August 24, 2009

You Know What They Say About Idle Hands

When we were soggy from too much floating and swimming, Halie (age 11) and I painted.
I made the crescent moon for the Laundry room re-do I wrote about in an earlier post.

The embroidery thing is something I take with me when I'll be somewhere I can't glue stuff up to other stuff.

If I finish it I'll just have to die, but I'll be reeeeeeeeely old by then.

Cancun Photos

The beach was still gone thanks to Wilma. There had been an effort to replace it but man cannot fight the ocean and win easily.
There is a plan to build a reef or jetty next month that is supposed to keep the beach intact.
Here's Haily on the rocks.

I took this from our lanai.

This one too.

Rob and Jordan arrived on Sunday without Jenny and Haily, due to a passport mix-up. Jen had a large dose of bureaucracy all day Monday and they arrived Tuesday morning.

Meanwhile Jordan had adventures playing volleyball and "Gringo." There was a play-off and he had to(?) Pole Dance, earning him this fantastic "Pole Burn" on his chest, which he loved showing off.
We stayed behind at the quiet (for the most part) resort.

Rob and Jen at the Mayan Palapa Bar Restaurant.

More to come...

Sunday, August 23, 2009

On the plane to Houston (Where we had to switch planes for the rest of our journey to CUN), I had the pleasure of sitting next to a young girl who spent the flight decorating her shoes.
I thought you crafty bloggers would enjoy how a clever young thing can turn Wal-Mart shoes into cool Vans.
I have learned from my grandies that without Vans, one is a Social Zero, and might as well just stay home and put beans in one's nose and ears.

I recall that when my daughter was in the 4th grade it was Dittos jeans.
By the 6th grade it was Chamendefers (sp?) - the lack of which would turn one into a weenie dork-face.


She's Baaaaaack

Before I left, Lexie got into my suitcase. She was suspicious, although up to this point in her life, she hadn't experienced any separations.

My little sister, Pegi, took good care of her, though and I don't think she really missed me much.
My welcome home was energetic and exuberant, however, and included a lot of kisses and nips and pawing of my face.

Friday, August 14, 2009

In Cancun

Sorry no pictures...I am on a public computer.
We are still alive. I feel like Job, you know the guy who was hazed by God because he wanted to be in HIS fraternity so bad he'd go through anything. I'm not trying for the club, but I have a gradoo rash on my back, a gradoo rash next to my lip, and my ear is killing me.
Other than that, All is well.

Thursday, August 6, 2009


Tomorrow we go to Sacramento and leave out of SAC at some ungodly hour in the morning.
Son and fam will come down Sunday.

We have a passel of friends with whom we enjoyed the joys of educating the youth of Southern Califoria. They have timeshares at the same time. We bought them about 14 years ago when we were still young. Now we seem to all be grandparents and have jobs doing what ever we want, when we want to.

This is the main daytime activity.

This sunrise was photographed by yours truly. An amazing feat when you remember the fact that I get up at the crack of 9:30. I took it standing about 3 feet from my bed and then got back in it after snapping the shot.

If this picture were to be taken of me today, I would be taking up much more room on the horizon.
Don't care.

These pictures were taken a few years ago.
They are daughter and grandchildren.

When we return we will have family pictures of the Daredevil son and his family.

I am taking my embroidery because I can't go without something creative. You know what they say about idle hands!

See ya in two!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009


I would imagine that dying of Adult ADHD would be as embarrassing as dying of Restless Leg Syndrome, but if I'm not careful, it's going to happen to me.
One day I almost burned the house down twice. Twice! In one day!
One involved an iron and a patch on some jeans. (I thought I'd just leave the iron on the patch for just one second while I ran over to my computer because it chirped. I even said to myself, "Surely to god, you can go across the room without forgetting what you are doing, Lynn!"
The other event involved some burnt up hard (VERY hard) boiled eggs. Actually if one of the eggs hadn't exploded with a pop, I probably wouldn't be typing this. Neither of these occurrences featured the use of any adult beverages.
I'm just saying.
Today I went to my little situation room to get my hammer to hang a great new piece of art that my friend sent. My computer called me to it and I checked my email and then went to check the laundry. I took the clothes out of the dryer so I could put the sheets into it. I carried the load into the bedroom and folded a shirt. I decided that I was hungry so I left the laundry and went to the kitchen and got out the cottage cheese. Yes, I am, thank you.
I opened the lid. Went to the cabinet to get myself a plate, noticed that some trim on a bowl I have been working on didn’t look right so I put the plate down and began to manipulate the stuff on the bowl. A few minutes later I heard a plane in the distance and knowing it was about time for Rob to return from Half Moon Bay, where he went to get fresh crab, I went outside on the deck to look for him. After a minute or so of watching the sky, I looked down and saw the container, that I use to catch rainwater, for watering the plants. I scooped up a bit and headed for my plants.
The first one I came to had the bugs-that-make-the–white-cottony-looking-stuff-disease, so I headed for the bathroom to get alcohol and cotton to get them off. While heading for the plant with the alcohol and cotton, I saw the laundry on the bed, which reminded me that I didn’t put the sheets in the dryer yet, and one thing that can turn Richard into a little whiney-pest boy is to not have the bed ready when he wants to get into it, so I put the sheets in the dryer, leaving the alcohol and cotton beside the hammer in the laundry room. I went looking for my water and found the cottage cheese sitting on the counter.
I am not making a word of this up. It didn’t end there! I’m just getting tired of reliving it! I know someone has passed something similar around on the Internet, but to me? It wasn’t funny. This is my life. Everyday.
Now what was I doing?

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Not so Deep South Part II

Richard and I, sister Barb, and brother-in law John had been enjoying the foreign country called The Confederacy for the past week.
We had discovered that the Rebel spirit had not died down here In the Deep South and the “War of Northern Aggression” was still an open sore on the people. We were ready for more anti Yankee monuments and more references to General Sherman as the Anti Christ. In addition, since the Confederate capitol was in Virginia, maybe we would get to see some re-enactors here. I wanted to see someone bloat!
We crossed on the Jamestown Ferry and landed in a completely different South.
Imagine our surprise to discover that this part of the world was the ordinary USA. There we were in historic, touristy Williamsburg, and what were they engrossed in? The Revolutionary war! We had left the south behind. These people didn’t even know they were Rebels.
The whole town was set up for a fifth grade field trip! It almost gave me a rash. (That happens to me when I get near schools, and just about anything connected with them.)
There were families all around us with children whom the well-meaning parents were attempting to enlighten with the history of their country. The children were responding with whines of, “I’m hot. Can we get an ice cream now? I’m tired. Are we almost done?” Since I’d rather stick a pencil in my eye than listen to that, we headed for the hills.
The Appalachian Mountains were beautiful. I could just see Daniel Boone or Davy Crocket traipsing about in there. Somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley, we lost our satellite radio connection. We knew we were in uncharted territory. This was probably not a place to get lost.
Barb and I had read a book about a race of people living in the mountains somewhere near here. They are the Melungeon, and even anthropologists don’t all agree on their origins. They keep to themselves and are suspicious of strangers. They are very dark people with blue eyes and light hair, and a very small gene pool. We were so hoping to see them, and at the same time fearful that we would.

On the way back we inadvertently paid the toll and went over a bridge twice, when we never wanted to go over it even once. In doing so we passed the “Jesus Bible, Gun, and Pawn Shop” twice. This small act was enough to cause four people who have been in a car for too many hours to fall all over each other laughing senselessly.
Weak from laughter, we stopped in a small town to walk around and get a feel for this “different south.” As we walked past a richly blooming tree, a big ole bumblebee flew out and buzzed fiercely around my head. I reacted in my usual demure and polite way, causing people to look at me in horror. A car that was driving by made a u-turn and came back by to see just who this screaming, unladylike person was, and I am sure they wondered who “my people” were, which is a very important thing to wonder about in small towns in the south.
Later, we ate in a buffet restaurant and had a sumptuous, monochromatic (sort of sepia) dinner. To add a little color to my diet I had bananas in an exquisitely delicate red Jell-O sauce for dessert. Ah, well, you can’t win ‘em all.
We went down into North Carolina and visited Kitty Hawk, which was very interesting. Those Wright boys must have driven their mother crazy with all of their shenanigans. We toured the Berkley Plantation and drove through the Outer Banks. The Atlantic coast is quite different from the left coast.
Later we saw a glassblower demonstration given by a couple of guys who looked as if they were thinking, “I could have been a back hoe operator, but No-o-o-o, I had to go and follow in my father’s footsteps.”
These tours, along with an archeological dig, a museum or two, and an hour or so at Ye Olde Flea market in Jamestown (A roll of the eyes goes here for the excessive use of the “Ye Olde” theme), we felt we knew all about this area of the country.
We went off to visit Richmond. It’s where the first Confederate capitol is. Surely there will be some more indignant Southerners there! Maybe we’ll finally see some re-enactors.
Actually, what we found was a city recovering from Mike Vick’s indictment circus. We had lunch in a wonderful deli situated across from the courthouse and the owner told us all about the day before. There were news trucks from all over the world lined up bumper to bumper in the street and the whole area was blocked off. All this to give some ninnyhammer attention he doesn’t deserve! Don’t get me started on that guy.
The old capitol was an unremarkable old building. Richmond might have been just another city, if not for the statue of Mr. Bojangles. The people here had moved on and joined the rest of America. How ordinary.

The next day we headed for Chattanooga, or ‘Noog, as the locals call it. Our grandmother, Mimi, grew up on Missionary Ridge, across the street from General Bragg’s headquarters, up on Lookout Mountain. We wanted to go see if we could find her house, as all of the houses up there are on the historical registry, and surely it was still there.
We spent the day immersed in her life as a little girl. We retold the old stories she used to tell us of her playing on land that was at one time a battlefield and how she stumbled into indentations of graves left over from the not-so-civil war.
Later we found her mother’s grave, and the grave of her three-year-old sister beside it. They had both died over a hundred years ago. My hair stood on end as I photographed their headstones.
Our mission was complete. Re-enactors or not, we were ready to go home.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Deep South Part 1

“I think we might need to take our passports, because where we are going is a foreign country,” said my sister, Barbie. She always reads, researches, and plans our summer escapades. We were headed for the Deep South.
We didn’t need to learn the language because we were raised by a Southern M ama, and we know the lingo well. If the sentence ended in “Hear?” it meant, “and you’d best be doing what I say or I am going to go get me a switch off of that willow tree outside!”
I was born in Jackson, Mississippi, and it will take more than forty-two years in California to take the Southern out of me.
However. I am aware that the invasion by those rude Yankees is in the past and it is time to move on. This is not the case in the South. And I mean anywhere in the south.
There are precious few southerners who have forgiven those miserable yankees for what they did to them and their genteel way of life.

The “wawah” as it is simply called might just as well have happened last week.

You aren’t going to believe this, but while we were in a restaurant in South Carolina, I found a letter in the local newspaper where the writer was trying his best to justify slavery! He actually wrote, and the editor published:
“Raising people above their station of intelligence and ability was cruel to them!” I couldn’t believe it!
Barb was right. It was another world!

We landed at Raleigh-Durham, got our car, (which we drove over four thousand miles in the two weeks we had it.) and headed for our base in Conway, South Carolina.

We had read a book called Confederates in the Attic by Tony Horwitz, just to get into the Southern mind set. It’s about Civil War re-enactors. We thought it was pretty funny as they are an intense bunch of people who live for this activity. Men who can “bloat” when they are “killed” on the pretend battlefield are in demand, for authenticity is paramount. If you aren’t authentic, you will be known as a “farb.”

We were so hoping to see some re-enactors.

Our first outing was a visit to Savannah, Georgia, where the warm air was so thick and heavy with humidity that we could almost see it. Be that as it may, I still give it my vote for the prettiest city in the world, and I’ve been to a lot of cities.
We visited Charleston, where they make the loveliest baskets from Low Country sweetgrass. You can’t get them anywhere else. (Except the Internet—look them up!) The basket making skill was brought from Africa and handed down through the generations. They are beautifully made and will last a lifetime.

Charleston has gorgeous old iron gates and gardens. Maybe it is the loveliest city in the world. (My proclamations about the Prettiest City in the World tend to vacillate.)

I did notice that even in the Catholic Church, the Stations of the Cross are in English instead of Latin. They don’t cotton to any foreign stuff in the Land of Grits and Kudzu.
Speaking of which, kudzu is a vine that grows prolifically there. If you park your car for too long, kudzu will grow over it and you may never see it again. I actually saw a satellite-dish-shaped kudzu bush on a kudzu-covered pole at one house. Guess the people who lived there went away for the weekend!

During that week we also visited Sullivan’s Island, Mount Pleasant, The Isle of Palms, Myrtle Beach, (Briefly. I’ve been to a beach.) Beaufort and Paris Island, and then Columbia, the capitol.

There is a statue of George Washington displayed on the steps of the capitol building. According to the iron plaque that was lovingly placed upon the base of it, the statue was beaten with a “brickbat,” (whatever that is) by those Yankee villains. They have chosen to leave it broken so they can be reminded of the indignities they suffered by the hands of the Yankee scoundrels.

In addition to this reminder, they did not repair the damaged places where that old reprobate, General Sherman, shot his cannon at their capitol for no reason! If that isn’t enough, they placed metal stars by each pockmark to call attention to them. (Lest they forget.)

And don’t even think of mentioning that criminal, Abe Lincoln, if you go there! I’ll tell you right here and now, I used my best Southern accent the whole time we were in Rebel Country.

You don’t want to be mistaken for a Yankee. You’d be better off being mistaken for a British person, and they aren’t too fond of them either!

They sure have some good food, though. We ate grits, fried okra and green tomatoes, biscuits and gravy, tons of barbeque, crab cakes, shrimp, crawdads, (aka, mud bugs), and we drank gallons of sweet tea. (aka, swait tay).

Those Low Country folks sure know how to eat!

Darn! No bloaters yet.
So we packed up and headed off to Virginia.
To be continued…